


Exceeding Expectations

by Anonymous



Series: Like a Flower, Bloom for Me [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Newt Scamander, BAMF Original Percival Graves, First Kiss, First Time, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, socially awkward Newt Scamander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Newt is called back to New York to help with a monster rampaging through Central Park. There's only one little problem ... Newt's still a virgin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written (loosely) for this prompt at the kinkmeme: http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?page=9#comments

Newt Scamander is not at all what Graves had expected - not, he reminds himself, that he had had much to base any expectations upon: a few by-the-way scribbles in letters from Theseus, and the whispers that come to his ears from his newfound habit of keeping his office door open a crack, with an amplification spell bringing the whispers and murmurs of the department to his ears. 

 

Everyone was afraid of him before the Incident, he reminds himself. 

 

Newt Scamander is, if Graves has to pick a word, shy. He has a hard time making eye contact. He is awkward, and nearly trips over himself with his effort to keep his suitcase behind him. 

 

Graves takes a step backwards, and Newt seems to relax - of course. Graves has little to go by except for whispers and a few flickers of memory courtesy of Queenie, but he should have expected this. (Some deep inkling still whispers to him that it is strange to see Newt like this - in his letters, Theseus had made him seem fearless rather than fearful. In his letters, Theseus had made him seem….)

 

“Mr. Scamander,” Graves says, careful to keep his distance, to keep his stance and his posture open and non-threatening. “Welcome back to New York.”

 

New Yorkers, from overexposure or affectation, quickly become blasé - they have seen the wonders of the city, and now don't find them worthy of another look. No-one cranes their necks to see how high the skyscrapers reach or looks at the mass and press of humanity in the streets with anything other than annoyance or disdain. 

 

Newt is not like that. For all that he has been here before, he cranes his neck to look up at the skyscrapers. He looks at the bustle of the streets with a small smile, as though he is fond of this place and these people. He turns to look back at the buildings they pass, as if he is appreciating the architecture so much that he can't bear to look away. 

 

Theseus never mentioned, in any of his letters, how damnably attractive his little brother is - either because of his knowledge of Graves’ predilections, or because he had a brother's fond blindness when it came to Newt. (Either reason is good enough reason to remember that Newt is not someone that Graves can touch - hellfire, after the Incident, he shouldn't even be allowed to look at Newt.)

 

Graves clears his throat and one of the Aurors flanking him jumps. They were afraid of you before the Incident, he reminds himself. They were right to be afraid - he was the deadliest Auror the department had seen in decades. He was proud of that reputation - he had earned it.

 

“We are glad that you could come so quickly, Mr. Scamander. We appreciate your help in this matter.”

 

He doesn't make eye contact with Graves but ducks and moves to the side as if he is trying to deflect his words. “I'm happy to help,” he says. “Especially - well, Tina suggested that it was a particularly interesting beast. I'm happy to … I wasn't far away, you know, just down in the Carolinas looking for … oh, but you won't be interested in that … I …”

 

He looks up at Graves for half a second, then, a pause as brief as a heartbeat. His eyes are so clear that Graves becomes fanciful for that half-second and thinks that he can see straight through them and into Newt’s soul - and then Newt blinks, and what might as well have been a spell is broken. 

 

“Will you - er, will you show me where the creature is? Or, or tell me, and I can find my way there, or…”

 

“Of course.” Graves wants to curse at how badly this is going - five minutes in his presence and Newt is still stammering and refusing to look at him. If Grindelwald had frightened Thesus’s fearless little brother this badly … it is a pity that he wasn’t still in the cells. Graves would have words with him - he would show Grindelwald that when he had his wits about him, he was a more-than-formidable Auror. 

 

He gestures for Newt to fall in beside him, and takes some heart in the fact that Newt doesn’t flinch when Graves takes his arm. The twist of turn of Apparition spits them out into the wooded verge of Central Park, and Graves turns the stumble of landing into a graceful step and then another. He stands two paces away from Newt and folds his hands behind his back as though he isn’t conscious of the phantom of warmth, the impression of Newt’s forearm through his blue coat. 

 

“The beast has been doing a fair bit of damage to the property and we’ve set up an age line,” Graves says. Newt twists a little - he nearly stumbled when they landed, but recovered himself quickly enough - and looks up at Graves for another half-second, another heartbeat. “Strangely enough, it doesn’t seem to attack any of the adults that have come near it, but it’s tried to charge into all of the children that were nearby - scattered them, mostly, but one of them got a nasty graze on her arm before we could get her away from the beast.”

 

“How -” 

 

Graves will never know what Newt was about to say, because it is just then that they cross the age line - the shimmer of it feeling like the last drops of a cold shower dripping down his spine - and come into sight of the beast. Against every one of Graves’ expectations - he may not have known what to expect from Newt Scamander, but he hardly expected this - the beast rushes at them, blinding in its fury and in the speed of its charge. 

 

Newt stumbles again in the attempt to get away and sprawls full-out on the grass. Graves hardly has time to think, but then he doesn’t need to think - he is still a fully trained Auror, whatever else he may be, and he can react as quickly as need be in dangerous situations. He throws himself head-first at Newt, crashing onto him - they are pressed together, chest to chest - and Apparates them both to safety.

 

Safety, in this case, is the first place that he thinks of - his office. They land on the floor, just as they were, and the hard surface can’t be doing Newt’s back any favors. Graves pulls himself up and offers Newt a hand.

 

“What,” he says, “in the name of the ever-living statue of Merlin, just happened?”

 

It was well within his remit to bring a magizoologist in to consult on a case - but hardly proper for him to bring a civilian into the line of fire. And if the beast in Central Park was about to start savaging adults, the age line would no longer be enough protection. Graves takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart. There will be some sort of solution for all of this mess.

 

“I, um.” Newt accepts his hand and heaves himself up and then looks down and tries - rather fruitlessly - to smooth his clothing into order. He keeps his eyes on his hands and doesn’t look at Graves. “I, I don’t think I’ll be able to help you with this particular beast.”

 

He is shaking a little, Graves notices, and he supposes it’s small wonder - bringing a civilian into a situation like that was unconscionably foolish of him. He presses Newt into a chair and steps out of the room to fetch a tray with coffee - long enough, he hopes, for Newt Scamander to get a hold of himself. Best, he thinks, to concentrate on the idea that this is a civilian who’s been through a shocking experience - and not to wonder how an experienced magizoologist could be so out of his depth. 

 

He presses a cup of coffee on Newt - he practically has to curl the man’s fingers around the cup himself. “The warmth will do you good, even if you won’t drink any,” he says. “I know you Brits prefer tea, but I also know what you all generally say when presented with a cup of the finest our canteen can make here.”

 

That gets him a little chuckle, and some of the color has come back into Newt’s face. Mr. Scamander, Graves reminds himself - he must remember that. No matter that this is the younger brother of his school penpal, or the man who saved his life and a great many others at the same time - no matter that, or perhaps because of it, Graves must stay professional.

 

“Are you all right?” he asks. He tries not to hover, not to be too intimidating - Newt is in his one visitor’s chair. Graves can’t sit behind the desk - that would be too formal, too unapproachable - so he perches on the edge of it, nearly jostling a stack of paperwork to the floor. 

 

“Fine,” Newt says. He looks at Graves for a second again and then down at his cup of untouched coffee. “I - I’m sorry I can’t help. I would if I could - I know, I hope you know, that she’s really not a dangerous beast. I’m sure she wouldn’t do any harm to anyone, that is, she wouldn’t -”

 

“Except for harm to you,” Graves says. His heart is beating too fast again and the room is unaccountably warm. “She nearly speared you just then. Don’t try to pretend that she’s harmless.” 

 

He drains his coffee in one gulp - it is far too hot and burns all the way down - and sets the cup and saucer down with a hard, determined rattle. “So tell me what you know - how dangerous is she, what is the best way to kill her, what-”

 

“You can’t kill her,” Newt says, losing what little color he had. He waves his hand as he protests and sends coffee splashing everywhere. “I didn’t say that she was dangerous, she isn’t, it’s just that I personally can’t - but any other magizoologist could, anyone qualified. I think Hepharion Lovegood, maybe, or Ctesias, or Apollonius-”

 

“None of them are here,” Graves says. “I have a city full of people to think about. So far we’ve been lucky - it’s tried to attack, but not killed anyone yet. But there’s no saying that we will continue to be lucky. We can’t count on it not attacking adults, now that it’s gone after you, and we can’t keep Central Park closed off from the No-Majs for long. It’s simply too risky - and the President will have my head if I even try.”

 

Graves can’t stand the look that he has put on Newt’s face, but - “You need to tell me what you know about the creature, and how we can handle it. I know you don’t want it killed or hurt, but I can’t allow it to kill or hurt any of the people that I’m sworn to protect. You do see that, don’t you?”

 

Newt looks more and more miserable, and he has stopped looking at Graves altogether - not even the almost-endearing, sidealong glances that he’d been giving his boots, earlier. “I … if you could just give me some time, I could teach someone else how to-”

 

“There’s no guarantee it won’t also attack whoever you try to teach, either.”

 

“I, I …” Newt looks down at his hand and seems to notice the spilled coffee for the first time. He sets the cup and saucer down on the floor and pulls out a handkerchief and starts to dab at the spilled liquid, managing mostly to spread it around. 

 

When he finally tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket and starts speaking again, his voice is almost too soft to hear. “It - she’s a lamicorn. A, a cross-breed between the manticore and the unicorn. There were some ancients who thought it was a good idea, who … the, the point is that they have all the fury and rage and the killing frenzy of the manticore, and all the obsession with virgins that unicorns have.” 

 

Newt has turned pale pink - at least, Graves guesses that he has because his ears are. His face is turned down to the floor and Graves has the impression that if Newt could have climbed into his case and spoken from there, he would have done it. “I, so you see, I could teach someone who, who wasn’t, who … someone who had, ah … and they could go and deal with the lamicorn. They, they really aren’t dangerous beasts, they’re incredibly docile as long as they aren’t, ah … in the presence of …”

 

Graves decides to spare him the embarrassment - if there is any left to spare him from. Newt has progressively turned pinker as he’s been speaking and has curled down into the chair as though he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.

 

“So you’re saying that the creature in Central Park attacked those children, and tried to attack you, because of … your state of purity.”

 

“That’s right.” Newt seems relieved that Graves has put it that way and he half-straightens, as though making it a clinical matter has made it that much better. “So you see, if there are any Aurors, who … are, ah, less than pure, I could teach them how to deal with the lamicorn, how to reassure it and then she could be brought somewhere safe. The nature reserve in the Berkshires, maybe.”

 

“That sounds … like it could work, perhaps, but it’s still rather risky,” Graves says. His blood is thrumming and his lungs feel too full of air - as though there’s too much flowing through him at this moment, the possibility and the hope in the moment expanding to fill him. “I mean, you are demonstrably the best magizoologist in the world. I’m not sure that someone else - even someone trained by you - would do the job well enough to get the lamicorn to safety.” 

 

Newt jerks and looks up at Graves. His face is still flushed a pretty shade of pink, and his eyes are open wide. He stares at Graves for a full three heartbeats. “You - you can’t-”

 

Graves takes a deep breath. This is - this is not what he expected from Newt Scamander, but if there’s any chance - he has to take it. “You weren’t … saving your purity so that you could frolic with the unicorns, were you?”

 

“I … but…”

 

At that moment, damnable a time as it was for an interruption, Madam Picquery opens the door without knocking and strides in. It’s something that she’s done a thousand times before - and Graves knows that he is hardly in a place to object to her interruptions - but he damns her for this one anyway.

 

“Well, Mr. Scamander. Thank you for coming back to New York to help us. And I hate to press you for it, but we’re being pressured by Muggleworthy Excuses to clear out Central Park as soon as possible. What sort of progress are you making?”

 

“We’ve just been discussing our plan of action,” Graves says, quick, before Newt can say anything. “I think we’ll need an hour or two to finalize it and get together the supplies and personnel that we’ll need, Madam. I’m terribly sorry for the delay, but I don’t think it can be helped in this case.”

 

“Fine,” she says, staring at him as though she can read his mind and see what exactly is making Graves’ heart beat faster. “Two hours.”

 

As soon as the door closes behind her with a soft wooden click, Graves hurries to Newt’s side and grasps his arm, Apparating them both away.


	2. Chapter 2

They land in his flat with the soft ping that accompanies their transit through his wards - Graves is nothing if not paranoid, and thorough, and protective of his space and person - now more than ever. But this is nothing more than the brush of cobwebs against skin, a sticky sensation that is there and then gone. 

 

This time, Graves does not release Newt’s arm when they land. The feeling of Apparition with him, the twisting and turning, the warmth of Newt’s body next to his own - they are sensations that he intends to savor. 

 

Newt is looking at him for once and it strikes Graves that this must be the expression that he uses when working with some of his dangerous beasts - patient, careful, coaxing. “What was that about?” he asks.

 

He does not say, “What are you doing? Where are we? Why are you stroking my arm?” although they are all, Graves is sure, valid questions.

 

The last of them, he can hear in the stutter of Newt’s heartbeat. Graves takes a deep breath. He is no magizoologist, no tamer of dangerous beasts, but in this moment, he feels the kinship that Newt must feel, the affinity for them - but now he feels more like a predator, circling his prey, with the right instincts prompting him as he lets go of Newt’s arm and takes a step back. Not too far - but just far enough to give him some space.

 

“Newt,” he says, and it is the first time that he has said his name aloud, the first time that he has called him anything other than the very proper “Mr. Scamander.”

 

Graves forces himself to take a deep breath, and another. “You know - you must know, I think, that the city here, and all of us, owe you a great debt. There’s nothing … There’s nothing binding you to help us any more than you already have done, apart from your innate goodness and your wanting to help the animals … but that shouldn’t factor into this. I swear to you, we will find another way to save the lamicorn if you don’t want to do this.”

 

Newt is watching Graves, with his eyes still wide and his lips slightly parted. He has that stillness to him that he must have cultivated over long hours of watching wild beasts - he tracks every movement Graves makes with his eyes, but he does not move himself. 

 

“We’ll call in one of the other people you mentioned, or train someone here to take care of it,” Graves says. He swallows hard. “But if … if you weren’t … wanting to stay pure so that you could still go chasing after unicorns … if you were willing to take care of the lamicorn yourself …”

 

He circles closer to Newt - and the analogy of a predator circling its prey is more than apt, and he’s sure it will have occurred to Newt, too. But Newt is only staring at him, unblinking, his breath perhaps coming a little faster. They are close enough to touch, now, close enough that Graves can almost fool himself into thinking that he feels the heat coming off of Newt’s body. 

 

He would never have thought himself worthy of this, but if it is offered to him - everyone was afraid of him before the Incident, Graves reminds himself, and they had good reason to be afraid. He is not a nice man. 

 

He is not a nice man, but this is Newt - Theseus’s little brother - and Graves will do this the right way. He comes close enough to Newt, standing behind him, and breathes into his ear - a hot whisper of breath that makes him shiver. Graves is close enough to him that he can almost feel the shiver himself, the tension running through Newt’s body from head to toe released in one short shake.

 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, Newt, but I - if you wanted this, I would do this for you.”

 

It is perhaps too much, too soon, and Graves knows it is the instant that Newt stiffens and bolts, ending up half the room away and still staring at Graves. His chest is heaving with deep breaths and he looks as though he has been running hard, but it was a matter of five steps and no more. 

 

“I don’t think…” Newt folds his arms over his chest and turns away, putting his back to Graves and facing the window that looks out over the city. His voice is soft, but loud enough that Graves can hear him without straining. 

 

“I was … I went to visit my brother, during the war, when he was on leave.” 

 

Graves, as quiet as he can, starts to move closer to Newt. 

 

“I … had been doing some work with the dragons, and needed to … rest, for a while. And he was on leave, and wrote to me, and asked me to come.” 

 

There is a long silence, and Graves wonders if Newt has become so lost in his memories that he should say something, anything - but he does not know this story, does not know why it seems to weigh so heavily on Newt. 

 

“It was in Paris that I met up with them, and my brother - and all of his men - they were … they were glad to be alive, I suppose.”

 

Newt turns to look at him, just a quick look over one shoulder, and Graves freezes, as though he is not quite obviously creeping closer. Newt sighs, and turns back to the window, and doesn’t seem to react to Graves’s nearness. 

 

“He … I don’t know. They were glad to be alive, I suppose. I … the war was hard on everyone.”

 

It had been hard on Theseus, Graves knows, from the few letters that he sent during those years. He thinks now that it was hard on Newt in another way entirely.

 

“There was … a place. A brothel, I suppose you would call it. There were … a lot of French women, girls, I don’t … they wanted me to go with them, and.…”

 

Graves waits, but Newt doesn’t finish the sentence and he supposes that he doesn’t need to. If Newt had gone, they wouldn’t be standing close enough to touch in a half-darkened apartment, discussing this. If Newt had-

 

He thinks of it, then, of the little he knows of Newt, the expectations he’d formed from some half-heard whispers and the gossip that no one in the department wants to share with him. Graves supposes that Newt must have seen the women in the brothel like some of the creatures he’d rescued from cages. He wonders if Newt tried to rescue them - wonders how the men treated him, wonders whether Theseus drew him aside for a patronizing lecture on the way that the world works. Men fresh from the battlefield do stupid things - Graves knows that better than any of them. 

 

Newt turns to face him again, and his skin is a little flushed, and he is trembling, a little, but Graves can see in him the brave boy that Theseus wrote about. (Theseus, who crushed his little brother’s ideals in one stupid move…)

 

“So you see,” Newt says, “I don’t … couldn’t … I don’t want anyone to do that with me, if it’s something that they feel … obliged, or duty-bound, or … something that they would want to do for the wrong reasons.”

 

He raises his chin, looks Graves in the eye. He doesn’t question Graves - his stint in captivity, the effect of the Incident, the pull of his duty to save the people - but only faces him, waiting.

 

“You know,” Graves says, keeping his tone light and conversational, “all of the British wizards I’ve met have insisted that Hogwarts is the best school in the wizarding world, but I can’t seem to find it that spectacular if it produces such a large crop of dunces.”

 

He is close enough to touch Newt now, and eases further forward, inching into his space until they are breathing the same air. 

 

“The idea that any of them could look at you and not instantly want to seduce you…” 

 

Graves reaches out - makes it a slow gentle motion, nothing fast and nothing frightening - and strokes the line of Newt’s jaw from his ear to the tip of his chin. 

 

“Perhaps they are all blind, the people you’ve known up until now,” he says. His voice is almost a whisper, silken-soft. He is close enough that there is no need to speak any louder than a whisper. 

 

Newt stands there frozen, watching him. “I’m not … very good with people,” he says.

 

Graves bends down until they are close enough to kiss, their lips a few millimeters apart. “I think you could be good with me,” he says. “I would … do my best to be good for you. Nothing that you don’t want. Nothing you don’t like.”

 

Newt is as taut and tense as a violin string, vibrating with the energy brought by the bow but trapped in place. 

 

“I don’t … I don’t think I know what I like,” he says. He looks up at Graves through his eyelashes, a move that would be practiced and coquettish on anyone else but seems natural and right when Newt does it. 

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Graves says, reminds him. “We will find a way to save the lamicorn, no matter what happens between us.” He is all at once a better man than he’s been in some time, to be making these promises to Newt, swearing vows as though he means them. No one has looked at him like this in a long time, eyes wide open and looking at him as though they believe him. 

 

“You don’t have to,” he says again, to make it as clear as he can. “But if you want to … if you want to, it would be my very great pleasure to show you what you like. To teach you.”

 

Newt swallows hard then, his gaze falters and he looks at the floor for a long moment. Graves feels conscious of his feet, his dirty and dusty boots - he feels clumsy and earthen, standing next to Newt. His heart thuds in his chest, harder and harder as the silence is drawn out between them. 

 

“I think I would like that,” Newt says, finally looking back up at Graves. “I … yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Graves is closing the final distance between them - eyes already half-closed as he imagines how sweet this first kiss will be - when Newt jerks away, almost fast enough to fall. He flourishes his wand and strips himself of his clothes without a word, and then looks up at Graves almost defiantly. 

 

“The quicker the better,” he says. “You don’t - there’s -” he stops as if confused, and Graves, his heart thudding hard, waits and lets him think through it. 

 

Newt finally gestures with his free hand, indicating his body with one compressed motion. “I know I’m not … not much … if you want to, I don’t know, turn off the lights and get on with-”

 

Enough is enough, Graves thinks. He closes the distance between them again and places a hand on Newt’s back, tracing the bone of his shoulder blade. It sticks out, almost as though Newt is one of the undernourished children Graves sees on the streets - but no, he is lean and wiry, not underfed. The long slim shape of him is enough to make Graves twitch - he has been half-hard through most of their discussion, but seeing Newt like this, bare and beautiful, is enough to test his control.

 

“I hope,” he says, keeping his voice light again, as if it is a subject of no great matter, “I hope, dear Newt, that you never go to bed with someone who doesn’t like your body. Someone who doesn’t appreciate you for the beauty that you are.”

 

He doesn’t know who made Newt feel this way - it is hard, he supposes, to erase a life of words with one night, one touch, but it is all that he has to offer now. He lets his hand press a little harder, firmer, still stroking Newt’s shoulder. “People who don’t appreciate you are hardly worth your time, I think you’ll find.”

 

Newt would learn all this and more when he took more lovers - a day that Graves is in no hurry to hasten on. 

 

“In the meantime,” he says, “please do not think of this as simply ripping a bandage off of a wound or as something that is to be done and gotten over as quickly as possible.” He lets his hand wander a little lower, lets his strokes turn a little more sensuous. “This is…”

 

He lets his hand slip low enough to graze Newt’s buttock. “...something to enjoy.”

 

They are standing so close that Newt is nearly standing on his feet, but Graves holds himself back - does not press himself against Newt and let him feel the hard evidence of his desire. Animal metaphors again, but this time he thinks of taming a young horse to ride, and not of a predator stalking its prey. He would not for the world frighten Newt now.

 

“We have plenty of time,” he says. He takes Newt’s hand and leads him to the bedroom - to the stark sterile room that most of his lovers have never seen. The lightglobes are emitting their usual dim light - he could bring them up, make them flare to highlight their passion, but he thinks that that would only frighten Newt. He leaves the lights as they are, and leads Newt to the bed, and pushes him down on it. 

 

Newt is quiet, now, and malleable - he moves as Graves directs him, the earlier burst of impatient defiance gone. He may have wanted to push the boundaries, test how far he could try Graves’ patience, see if he truly wanted this - but now he is pliant and sweet, settling back against the black and white quilt spread out on the bed without a hint of protest.

 

“Never go to bed with a lover who doesn’t love your body,” he says, hoping that at least some of the things that he says tonight will stay with Newt. He can hardly hope for more than that - not Percival Graves, not the man that he has become - but being the first to touch Newt like this, being the one who has the chance to plant those first memories for him, that is more than he could have expected, more than he could have fairly dreamed. 

 

“Let me show you,” Graves says. He lets his voice drop to a lower pitch, lets it thrum with some of the desire that he feels. He is straining to control his desire - he is hard enough that he wants to fling himself onto Newt and rut his way to completion, but this is not about Graves and his desires. This is all for Newt.

 

He presses a kiss to the back of Newt’s hand, the first time that his lips have touched Newt’s skin. He tastes of coffee, which is strange until Graves remembers the spilled cup in his office - it feels like a lifetime ago.

 

“I like your hands,” he says. “Strong, graceful fingers - and I know how competent you are with them - and how clever they are.” He kisses a knuckle, the tip of a finger, the delicate webbing that stretches between thumb and forefinger. He lets his tongue slip out and licks the skin there, knowing how sensitive it can be, and is rewarded by Newt’s full-bodied shudder. 

 

“I think that you could use these hands to make me feel good,” he says, his voice just a low rumble now. “I think I would like to watch you use them to make yourself feel good - I would sit, and watch you touch yourself, and love it.” He kisses the back of Newt’s hand again, the inside of his wrist, the palm of his hand. He is careful to keep the kisses mostly chaste, not wanting to push Newt too far or too fast.

 

Graves shifts to the side and presses a line of kisses down Newt’s arm, lingering wherever he finds a scar and lavishing it with more kisses. “I like your arms,” he says. “You are stronger than you look, I think. You have beautiful shoulders - the line of them, when you aren’t hunched over, when you are looking straight at me…” 

 

He kisses the top of Newt’s shoulder and then dips down a little to kiss his way across his collarbone. He follows the kisses with soft fluttering touches, stroking the kiss-wet skin and smiling when Newt moans.

 

“You might say that I don’t have to do this, you were worried that I was doing it out of duty, but you don’t see yourself - how beautiful you are like this.” Graves has reached Newt’s sternum now, and presses a kiss to it, lets his lips linger long enough to feel the echo of Newt’s heartbeat. 

 

“You can’t know how gladly I am doing this, how much I want you. How much I want this.”

 

Graves feels drunk on it, as drunk as he ever has been on whiskey or giggle water. His cock is throbbing, neglected, and he feels the constriction of his clothes, the weave of the fabric against his skin, like a cage - but this is not about him, he reminds himself. 

 

He makes his way halfway down to Newt’s bellybutton before he changes course and kisses his way back up to Newt’s mouth. Graves plays with his nipples, thumbing them to taut peaks, while finally letting himself taste his lips - that first kiss he had tried for, what seems hours away. Now it seems more important to kiss Newt than it is to correct his misperceptions of himself, but although the kiss has turned into something slow and drugging, the soft slide of tongue against tongue, the heat and the glory of it is enough to stir Graves into remembrance. 

 

“You have beautiful lips,” he says, pulling back far enough to look Newt in the eyes. “I would - I would kiss you every day, if I could.” He gives Newt another kiss for emphasis. “Or, I would sit and listen to you talk, and think about what your lips would look like if your mouth was … otherwise occupied.” 

 

He stays soft and gentle, though he thinks Newt is past the point of frightening - he is a taut line now, his hands clenched into fists in the quilt, his toes curled. His cock, which Graves has not yet touched in his praise of Newt’s body, is hard and Graves wants to touch it so badly - wants to be the first to touch Newt like this - wants everything, wants it now.

 

Patience, he reminds himself, letting one hand twitch the fabric of his trousers, a small adjustment that brings some relief. 

 

He puts an off-skew kiss on Newt’s cheekbone, surprising a breathy almost-laugh from him. “I suppose you like my cheekbones, too,” Newt says. He looks at Graves as though he doesn’t believe that anyone could say such a thing, as though he is testing Graves for truth and trustworthiness.

 

“All of your face,” Graves says, kissing his cheekbone again, his forehead, the tip of his nose, the point of his chin, the curve of his lips. “All of you.”

 

Newt is an unpracticed kisser - Graves has not asked, does not want to bring the shame and stories of the past further into this than he has to - but he thinks that he may be winning a first here, too, and he cannot help but delight in it, exult in it, deepening the kiss until it turns almost savage. When he pulls away, Newt is gasping for air and he is flushed again, the delightful pink working its way down his neck and chest. Graves chases it with kisses and ends up kissing a nipple, teasing the taut peak with licks and gentle nips. 

 

“Tell me,” he says, breathing on the wet flesh there, looking at the effects his kisses have on Newt, “tell me if I do anything you don’t like.”

 

Newt has been overwhelmed, overwrought with pleasure, but this instruction brings him somewhat back to himself and he laughs again, that same breathy chuckle that Graves wants to hear again. “I think you know I like this.”

 

“Good,” Graves says, and he uses the strength he honed as an Auror - and kept sharp, these past months, needing the reassurance of it - to flip Newt over in one smooth move. He presses kisses to his back and now that he cannot see Newt and track his reactions by his face, he counts his moans and his wriggles and the harsh indrawn hisses of his breath. 

 

“I like your back - and your spine - and your - all of you,” he says, reaching Newt’s buttocks and kneading them with his hands. He thinks that naming this body part would bring on another of Newt’s blushes and he is not aiming for that now - he is aiming for the sweet moan that he hears now, and for the way that Newt has started to press himself into the quilt, a rhythmic motion that ratchets Graves’ need for him to the breaking point.

 

“None of that, my sweet,” he says. He ignores the pet name - Percival Graves is not the sort of man to use pet names, and therefore he has not now used one - he is deconstructing Newt, one nerve and one sinew at a time. This is art and science and the beauty of life, all laid out before him. He flips Newt again, so that he is lying flat on his back with no friction to seek. His hips still move, a few more jerky stutters, before he holds himself still, obedient and waiting.

 

“Please, I-”

 

“Tell me what you want,” Graves says. He follows the command with a kiss and another kiss, keeping Newt from answering. He does not know if Newt knows - or if Newt is brave enough to ask yet - but he thinks that he knows what Newt wants, and the best way to show it to him. 

 

He lets one hand trace a path up Newt’s leg, from knee up his inner thigh until it rests close to where Newt needs it the most. He skirts sideways and traces the curve of Newt’s hipbone, and bends down to press a kiss there. 

 

He has, he thinks, underestimated Newt. Graves thought that by now he would be delirious with pleasure, past voicing his wants and desires - but Newt surprises him. 

 

“I want - I, if you could…”

 

Graves pulls back to look at him and Newt shivers - as if he is suddenly shy, as if he cannot say it. Graves traces the sweet curve of his lip with a finger. “Tell me,” he says. Newt is a delightful shade of pink, and as pretty as a picture.

 

“I … if you could take off your clothes, too?” Newt sounds uncertain, as though he’s not sure if this is something he can ask for. “I … I would like to see you, too.”

 

It is the word of a second to grasp his wand and banish his clothing, and Graves has the space for a half-coherent thought, a musing about the lengths he would have gone to, the things that he would have done for Newt, just then. 

 

It is the easiest thing in the world to shift and then lower himself onto Newt, pressing their bare bodies together. The way that they touch, the amount of bare skin pressed to bare skin, the feeling of Newt’s hard cock next to his own - it is almost enough to shortcircuit Graves’ better reason, to make him forget himself and his plans. This, he reminds himself, this is for Newt. 

 

“I -” 

 

Graves stops, then, and Newt is the one who takes the initiative, chasing him for a kiss. He is a quick learner and Graves savors it, drinking deeper, drinking faster. He will be damned for this if he must be, but he does not think that something this sweet could damn him.

 

“I used to think about you,” Newt says, still rosy-cheeked. He hides his face in Graves’ shoulder, mouthing kisses to his collarbone as he copies what he has already learned from what Graves did to him. “My brother used to talk about you - about the letters you’d sent - and about how clever you were, and how good you were at magic, and how -”

 

He trails off there, the words lost in a flurry of kisses. He pulls back and looks at Graves, his eyes clear and not at all fogged by lust. “He never let me know how beautiful you are, how kind you are.”

 

Graves returns kiss for kiss, his heart racing almost as fast as he can feel Newt’s is, beneath him. “You won’t tell him how you found out, I hope.” 

 

“Not if you don’t,” Newt says with that half-chuckle that Graves has already learned to love. He could be addicted to this, to the feeling of Newt’s heartbeat, their bodies pressed together, the huff of breath that comes with every half laugh - Newt may be the one who comes to this bed a virgin, Graves thinks, but he has never known anything like this.

 

He blames the soppy sentimental drivel on the part of himself that has escaped his firm rigid control, his precise direction, his order, ever since the Incident - and it is therefore not important, it is merely another thing that will be chased and corralled and fixed all in due time. It is not important now - the only thing that is important right now is the way that Newt is looking at him, the way that he is straining upwards and reaching for another kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More later! Apologies to those who are following along but it is pumpkin-hour in this time zone. :( Don't worry, I am well aware the smut and (what passes for) plot points are still unresolved!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are here for the porn, I hope that this chapter suits. (It has been a long, long time since I wrote something this filthy and so please let me know if it works!)
> 
> If you are here for the plot, you may want to skip this chapter and wait for chapter 5 - hope to have it finished later tonight or tomorrow. 
> 
> Thank you all SO much for the really lovely comments and kudos, I appreciate them all! <3

Graves kisses Newt harder, deeper than he has before. He runs his hands over Newt’s body and rocks against him, a little, letting Newt feel how hard he is, how affected he is by what they are doing. Newt should know, Graves thinks. 

 

“Don’t tell me I don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice hardly louder than a breath - the kiss has stolen most of the air from his lungs. “Newt, I  _ want _ to do this.”

 

Newt is trembling now a little, and he raises a hand to the side of Graves’ face and pulls him down for another kiss. Graves can feel how fast his heartbeat is racing, he can feel the shudder of Newt’s jagged breaths. 

 

He kisses him quiet, swallowing both those delightful shivery jagged breaths and the moans that Newt makes as Graves continues to explore his body. His skin is soft, sensitive - he shivers at every caress and cries out as Graves moves lower with a line of sweet sucking kisses down the sweet curve of his neck. 

 

“Remember,” he says, going lower still, “nothing that you don't want.”

 

It sends a sweet shudder down the length of Graves’ body to think that he is the first to touch Newt like this, the first to bend over him and take a drop of leaking pre-come from the tip of his prick, the first to taste him like this. 

 

Newt mewls, his hands fisting in the soft quilt. He cries out again, louder, when Graves reaches with a gentle finger and traces the line of his prick from root to tip. He savors the steel-soft feel of it, the way that Newt reacts to the slightest touch.

 

He makes teasing into a science, into an art, and lavishes Newt with little touches, little licks. If this was a religion, the worship of Newt’s body, Graves would be its jealous high priest - no others would be admitted to the temple.

 

He pins Newt’s thighs in place when he starts to squirm, and he persists - he knows now that this is too fast, too much, too soon, for someone as inexperienced as Newt is,  but Graves finds that he cannot help himself, cannot resist the siren call of Newt’s breathy moans and half-mouthed pleas.

 

It is no surprise, then, when he pushes Newt over the edge too soon - he catches a longer-than-usual moan, and caps it with a kiss pressed to the lovely head of Newt’s prick. Newt comes with a groan, and his come splatters over Graves’ face, coating his lips and dripping down his cheeks and chin. He cannot be sorry for it, only for the way that Newt looks half-dazed, half-wrecked with mortification.

 

Graves can only imagine how debauched he looks, licking Newt’s come off his lips and lifting a hand to wipe the rest away. He sucks it from his fingertips - he is the first one to touch Newt like this, the first one to taste him - and he is so hard that he holds control of himself only with a struggle. (He wants to bury himself in the heat of Newt’s body, wants to take and touch and claim - but he retains enough sense to remind himself that this is not about him.)

 

“I - I’m sorry - so sorry,” Newt says. 

 

“Don't be,” Graves says, pulling himself up the bed and pressing kiss after gentle kiss to Newt’s face. 

 

Newt’s eyelashes flutter, impossibly lovely, and his blush deepens. “But I didn't - but you - that is -”

 

A better man than Graves would teach Newt to put aside his shyness, to ask for what he wants, to tell him to put plain names to the plain acts that they do and know them for something natural and free of any hint of shame - but Graves is not a good man, and he is charmed by the way that Newt blushes, the way that he stutters and stammers.

 

“I will take it as a compliment,” he says, stretching to lie next to Newt, their bodies pressed together with no hint of space between them. He knows that Newt can feel the hard press of his cock against his hip, but that is something to be set aside for the moment.

 

He kisses one of Newt’s eyelids, then the other, and then moves down to kiss him on the mouth. He lingers there, slow and careful, and lets Newt taste himself on Graves’ lips. Newt’s lips part, and he moans into the kiss, and he reaches with a hesitant hand to stroke Graves - soft sweeping touches to his arm and his back, innocent touches that nevertheless make his desire for Newt burn stronger and deeper.

 

The press of his own erection is becoming impossible to ignore - some small part of Graves wants to clutch at Newt and demand some sort of release from this spell. He feels incandescent, as though he has been lit from within and is burning with a fire that threatens to consume him and all his senses. He is overwhelmed by the feeling of Newt’s body under him, by his soft skin just now starting to glisten with sweat, with the rhythm of his soft sharp breaths and the pace of his heartbeat. 

 

“I need you,” he says, soft as a whisper, nibbling on Newt’s earlobe. He takes Newt’s hand in his own and guides it to his prick, guides it in a long, smooth stroke over his length. “Can you feel how much I need you? What you're doing to me?”

 

Graves takes stock, considers, and takes control. If he can only draw this out a little longer, he thinks that Newt will be able to come again - he is young, and so lovely, panting for it the way that he is now. Graves kisses Newt again, soft and sweet. 

 

He kisses him because when they kiss, Newt closes his eyes and Graves does not need to see how lovely and innocent he looks, how his eyes darken with every kiss and with every caress. If he sees Newt like that, Graves thinks that he will come far too soon.

 

He flips Newt again, delighting in the way that he is so pliant, so sweet - he moves without complaint and shifts his limbs as Graves directs. “Nothing you don’t want,” he says again, breathing the words into Newt’s ear and watching him shudder. 

 

His wand is still at hand and it is the work of half a second to conjure some oil. He slicks his cock and bites his lower lip hard - he is too close, nearly driven over the brink by the sight of Newt spread out on his bed and the sound of Newt’s harsh breathing. It will not take long at this rate to bring Newt back to the heat of desire. 

 

Graves lays across Newt’s back, delighting in the warmth and sweat of his fair skin. The fact that he has been the one to do this, the first one to make Newt sweat like this, is another ember that feeds the flames of his desire. He nudges at Newt until Graves’ prick slips between his thighs and groans aloud at the warmth and smoothness of his skin.

 

“Can I do this?” he asks, his voice still a whisper. “Will you hold your thighs together for me - just like this? Will you let me show you how much I desire you?”

 

He kisses Newt’s shoulders, his back, and some of the sucking kisses turn into soft bites. He rocks back and forth with each kiss, gasping with the need for this - for Newt - and Newt groans and clenches his thighs together tighter. 

 

Newt reaches behind himself, blindly fumbling, until he finds Graves’ hand and he latches onto it, holding it tight. Strangely enough, it is that small show of trust, the feel of Newt’s hand in his and the flutter of Newt’s pulse in his wrist, that sends Graves tumbling over the edge. He bites down on Newt’s shoulder as he comes, just a touch too hard, and feels a certain sort of savage satisfaction at the act - no matter what else they do, no matter who Newt is with in the future, Graves is the one who marked him first. 

 

That thought gives him the tenderness he needs to take a deep breath and roll off of Newt’s back, prompting him to turn and then settling Newt in the circle of his arms. Graves is breathing hard, still, and Newt is hard again. He looks somewhat sheepish about it, and tries to knock Graves’ hand aside when he reaches for his prick. 

 

“That’s not - you don’t have to - I mean -”

 

“Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Graves turns the intended caress into a tighter embrace, reaching up and pulling Newt closer to him again.

 

They kiss, and Graves stretches each kiss out like sweet taffy, kisses Newt until he is reaching for Graves again, until he is breathless and undone with his wanting. 

 

Graves has tried most things and tried some of them twice - he is not indiscriminate in his bedpartners, but he sees no reason not to devote hours to the pursuit of pleasure as long as it does not interfere with his duties. He has learned enough to know what he likes, and enough to know how to please his partner, and he uses that knowledge now.

 

“I want to do this,” he tells Newt again, stroking his cock. He pushes Newt back against the bed again and settles over him - a few muttered spells and then he is easing himself down onto Newt’s cock, taking him in slowly. He does not often like to take the passive role - but he is hardly passive now - and he wants this, wants to feel Newt in him, wants to know him in this way. Graves has been craving the sweet burn of this, the fulfillment. He watches Newt now - watches how his eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening - watches how he bites his lower lip and how he catches Graves’ hand again, pulling it to his mouth for a kiss. 

 

It is soft and sweet and Graves knows that he should not take this much pleasure in being Newt’s first, in being a memory that will be quickly eased away with time and future lovers - but he delights in it still, and holds Newt’s hand, and rides him as slowly and sweetly as he can.

 

It does not take long - even though he has already come once, Newt is too overwhelmed to be able to hold out for very long - but Graves enjoys it while it lasts, takes the sweet burn of Newt’s possession and holds it like a memory that he will have always.

 

Newt shakes and shivers in his arms, afterwards, and Graves uses a spell to flip the quilt up and over them. The sweat is drying on their bodies, but he has Newt to take care of and keep warm - that is distraction enough from the burn of his body, the ache of muscles rarely used, and the discomfort of the cooling sweat and come. He peppers Newt’s eyelids with soft kisses and holds him - he is a comfortable armful, just the right size to hold snug against Graves’ chest. Their legs tangle together and he rests his chin on the top of Newt’s head and runs a soothing hand up and down his back. 

  
They rest in a half-sleep, half-reverie for countless minutes until they are interrupted by the tapping of an owl on the windowpane, an impatient staccato knock. 


	5. Chapter 5

Graves half-expects it to be a letter from Madam Picquery - that it is Theseus’s stately owl, bearing a letter from his penpal, makes him look back at the bed and add another layer of guilt to the mass of it forming around a kernel somewhere in his heart. He puts the letter aside to read later, and goes back to stand next to the bed, offering Newt a hand. 

 

“We really should be…”

 

Part of him wants to stay in this cocoon of his bedroom, the darkness and dim lighting of his townhouse - what he has with Newt, here and now, may well not survive being dragged out into the light and scrutiny of the outside world - but he has glimpsed enough of Newt, has heard enough rumors and whispers, to guess that he would be more than distraught if something were to happen to the lamicorn that could have been prevented by any action of his. 

 

Newt blushes and fumbles for his wand, pulling himself out from under the quilt and starting the wand motion that will restore his clothing. 

 

“Wait,” Graves says before he can stop himself - it is impatient, uncharacteristic of him, but he can’t choke back the word. “Not so quickly.”

 

He summons Newt’s clothing from the other room and lays it on a pile next to the bed and then dresses Newt by hand, helping him into his shirt and trousers, fastening buttons with slow fingers. Every inch of skin that is covered feels like a loss - like he is losing Newt.

 

Newt fidgets and he hinders more than he helps, trying to do up his buttons himself, fussing with his waistcoat until it suits him. Graves helps him into his deep blue coat - it is a stunning color on him - and reaches in to press a kiss to his cheekbone again. 

 

Newt smiles and Graves has a sudden flash of feeling - that there could be a future for them, some time years ahead of now, when they will still laugh and smile and remember, prompted by the brush of a kiss on a cheek. It is a sweet thought, and he kisses Newt again - this time with a long, lingering kiss on his lips. 

 

Newt is the one to break away first. “We should … go,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets and shifts, looking as though there’d nothing he’d like better than to dash away from here. “I don’t know - I, that is, to say … I … thank you.”

 

Graves catches his hand, tugging it out of his pocket, and brushes a kiss over his knuckles. “Please,” he says. “It was my pleasure.”

 

He has been a man of the world for a long time now - Graves likes to think of himself as a confidant, urbane man, if somewhat particular and rule-bound - but his voice trembles a little as he speaks, and Newt’s hand is not the only one that shakes a little. 

 

Graves pulls Newt close for a list kiss - even as they are kissing, he tells himself that he must not think of it as a last kiss, must not think that this is the last time that he will taste this sweetness on Newt’s lips. It feels final, but that can hardly be helped - this was an afternoon interlude, drawn to a close by the press of events, and of course it feels final - but it need not be, Graves tells himself. It need not be. 

 

He grasps Newt by the arm and holds him closer than is strictly socially appropriate while he apparates them back to Central Park. 

 

Dealing with the lamicorn, when it happens, is something of an anti-climax - though Graves feels his lips twitch at the thought. Newt is in his element, clearly - and it is distracting to watch him, to see him competent with a wand, to see him winning over the lamicorn with soft words and careful, measured behavior. (Graves thinks again of how he had compared himself to a predator, stalking Newt, or to a horse trainer, taming him - how he pales, now, in comparison to Newt’s mastery of the subject.) 

 

He shifts a little, thinking of the possibilities - of Newt, mastering him, using the same skill he has here in other areas, learning what Graves needs and wants and providing it all with a gentle touch and soft words. Madam Picquery, who had not been impressed with their tardiness, gives him a sharp look and Graves calls himself to order - this is not the time or the place for such thoughts. He is, under most circumstances, in far better command of himself than this. 

 

Newt promises the lamicorn a new home, in the end, a place where it can roam free without the annoyances it has encountered here in Central Park - and he ushers it into his suitcase without further ado, snapping the clasps shut and tying it tightly closed with a rope. 

 

“Sorted,” he says, looking at Graves with something that might have been a grin - something that might have been an acknowledgement of what had passed between them, what had made this possible. 

 

All that is left is the clean-up - and Graves twitches again at the malapropos thought, and Madam Picquery raises her eyebrow at him again. If he is not more careful, she will suspect that something is up - if he acts like a raw youth and smirks at the slightest of innuendos, if he acts like a fool in love - and so Graves bends all of his attention to commanding the Aurors as they set Central Park to rights and open it up to the No-Majs again. 

 

It is while he is focusing so hard and so diligently on his duties that Tina corners Newt. Graves is caught up in a conversation with one of his Aurors and cannot escape - so he watches, out of the corner of his eye, while she flings both of her arms around him and holds him for much longer than Graves thinks could ever be deemed socially necessary or appropriate. (It is not as though Newt is her long-lost brother, after all - hardly that, and so she does not need to hang on his arm as though he is.)

 

Graves, though he sets himself to other tasks, keeps Newt somehow in his line of sight - so that he can look at the lines of his blue coat, and think of the buttons that he has fastened, and look at the clothing, and think of the skin covered by it. He has touched Newt there, he thinks. He, and no one else.

 

When he is finally free to come near Newt again, Tina is still with him and still holding his arm. She is looking particularly well today, he notes dourly - she has done her hair differently, she has made an effort. Graves glares at her, and she flinches.

 

He is not a nice man - they were all afraid of him before the Incident - they are afraid of him now, and more rightly so - the litany repeats in his head, the list of things that Graves has to remember. He takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders - he will face the world, firm and in command of himself. At the end of all things, it is all that a man has, his command of his self.

 

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” he asks Newt, breaking into the conversation with Tina with all the grace that the enraged lamicorn had had, when it charged Newt earlier. He wants nothing more than to whisk Newt away without any pleasantries, without any further ado - but Tina is already staring at him and frowning at his uncharacteristic behavior.

 

“He’ll stay with us, of course,” she says, tightening her grip on Newt’s arm. 

 

“Oh - no - I was going to find a hotel,” Newt says, flushing. “I wouldn’t impose - such -”

 

Before Graves can leap in with any further suggestions about where Newt might spend his nights, Tina has already pulled him closer to her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “Of course you’ll stay with us - Queenie is just dying to see you again.”

 

Before Graves more than half-knows what is happening - before he has a chance to counter it with an alternate suggestion - Tina has whisked Newt away, the two of them fading away in the silver pop of apparition. Graves could curse himself - for all that he is meant to be an Auror, for all that he is meant to be quick-witted and feared and deadly, for all that he wanted to take Newt back to his bed - for all of that, he is useless in the end. All he can do, then, is whirl himself away and take himself back to an empty bed that will still, he hopes, smell like Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so exhibit A of why I should not be allowed near a kinkmeme - a teensy tiny little story that has now escaped my grasp and will, I think, be three parts when all's said and told. I am marking this part complete (5/5 chapters) right now, because I plan for the next part to be from Newt's POV and so I will post it as a separate story. (I will make it a series with this one so it should be easy to find, I hope.) Sorry for disrupting the narrative arc, but it takes two to tango (as they say) and I think it's about time that Newt has his chance to have a say.
> 
> Thanks very much for all of the comments, kudos and love!


End file.
